The Wolfe Widow (A Book Collector Mystery) Read Free Page A

even more.
    I had my dream attic, the run of the house, a job I loved and food to die for. Vera paid me a reasonable rate, but as I had no real expenses, that allowed me to save to get back to graduate school. In turn, while I did research, I also managed to find good books at good prices and sell many of these finds, which gave Vera a good return.
    Although I believed she was getting some perks from having me on staff—such as keeping her and her collection from harm’s way—for the most part. In fact, I figured I was a bargain.
    Vera’s growing collection was a big money drain. The estate was hemorrhaging cash. Her better artwork had been disappearing and there was a lot less sterling silver than when I’d first come on the scene. No one in their right mind would buy any of these portraits of the Van Alst ancestors, no matter who painted them. I thought I’d better try finding out about this Muriel Delgado woman in case we were about to say adios to our Francis I forks. Or worse, maybe she was making an offer on the book collection. I sat upright, sweating. Maybe Delgado was a real estate agent and Vera was thinking of liquidating the contents and selling the house. What would happen to us then?
    How to dig up some dirt?
    By now it was past two, so maybe Uncle Mick was back. I gave it a try.
    I picked up the phone and called.
    “What is it? Bail money?” he said.
    I could imagine him sitting there, big Irish grin, ginger eyebrows and matching chest hair, an older, saner version of Uncle Kev, without a bounty on his head.
    “Very funny. Just need a bit of information.”
    “Anything for you, my girl. You know that. And while we’re talking, how’s our Kevin getting on?”
    “As well as can be expected.”
    “Always have a backup plan, Jordan.”
    My family are masters of the backup plan, which is why they live free and happy days instead of breaking rocks somewhere without antiques and Kraft Macaroni and Cheese.
    “I do, but I hope I don’t need it. Do you know anyone called Muriel Delgado?”
    “It might ring a bell but I can’t say right off.”
    “Any chance you can ask around? See what you can dig up?”
    “For my favorite niece, the sky’s the limit.”
    “Your only niece.”
    “Even more so. I’ll inquire. But I should mention that your uncle Lucky’s kind of mopey since you don’t live here anymore. Don’t suppose you could drop in more often?”
    “Uncle Lucky’s in Manhattan with Karen.”
    “Still.”
    I grinned. “I’ll come by tomorrow. I miss you too.”
    *   *   *
    “I SEE YOU have another Archie Goodwin book on the go, Vera,” I said cheerfully as I arrived in the conservatory the next morning. We breakfasted at eight every day. We were not late if we knew what was good for us. Vera had a passion for Nero Wolfe, because her father had introduced her to the Rex Stout books when she was a child. It seemed to have been the only interest they’d shared. Now as a collector, she had a thing for a lot of classic mysteries, but Wolfe held a special place in her icy heart. Today the book was
Black Orchids
. She wouldn’t read it, of course. It was for fondling only, being a deliciously fine first edition. Her father’s well-thumbed paperbacks were stashed between her bedroom and her office, where I’d found her reading and rereading them. The fact that she had this edition of
Black Orchids
with her in the conservatory, away from its normal, safe habitat in the temperature-controlled library, told me she was in her Wolfe-ish mode. Not that it mattered to me. Archie Goodwin was my man. The only one who counted.
    Mind you, I’d had quite a literary crush on Lord Peter Wimsey not that long ago. It seemed that the minute I got my bearings again I had fallen hard for the suave, smooth, wise-cracking and well-dressed right-hand man to the eccentric Nero Wolfe. I was trying to keep up with Vera and while she was rereading Rex Stout’s works for the umpteenth time, I was just